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I am made, crudely, for success.

Sylvia Plath

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Sylvia Plath
Age: 30 †
Born: 1932
Born: October 27
Died: 1963
Died: February 11
Autobiographer
Diarist
Essayist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Victoria Lucas
Sylvia Plath Hughes
Crudely
Success
Made

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We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.
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I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space, that you've got to burn away all the peripherals.
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I knew chemistry would be worse, because I'd seen a big card of the ninety-odd elements hung up in the chemistry lab, and all the perfectly good words like gold and silver and cobalt and aluminum were shortened to ugly abbreviations with different decimal numbers after them.
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I could never be a complete scholar or a complete housewife ora completewriter: Imustcombinea little of all, and thereby be imperfect in all.
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The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life.
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If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.
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Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.
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The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
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I am myself. That is not enough.
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I've eaten a bag of Green apples. Boarded the train, there's no getting off
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My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.
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Oh what a poet I will flay myself into.
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The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me Cruelly, being barren. Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
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What is so real as the cry of a child?
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That’s one of the reasons I never wanted to get married. The last thing I wanted was infinite security and to be the place an arrow shoots off from. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.
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August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
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I hurl my heart to halt his pace.
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What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.
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